A Family Homecoming

Stories of family and romance beneath the Big Sky!

Sara Mitchell:
Even five-year-old Sara could tell her mommy and daddy were still in love. And she desperately wanted to keep her daddy home safe and sound forever—and complete her family!

Kyle Mitchell:
After two years under deep cover, the FBI agent came home to find his family in danger. Now
nothing
would stop this passionate husband and father from defending his own.

Danielle Mitchell:
Danielle didn't want to need Kyle—after all, the sexy secret agent had become a stranger to her during his long disappearance. But she couldn't deny her daughter his protection. How would she keep herself from falling for the husband she no longer knew?

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

H
ome.

Kyle Mitchell stood on the cracked sidewalk in front of the white ramshackle house. Danielle, his wife of six years, had bought it when she'd moved to Whitehorn two years ago. Until this moment he'd never laid eyes on it.

The wind howled forlornly through the evergreens that lined the drive and formed a windbreak against the driving snow. It slid icy fingers under the thick collar of his down-filled parka, roamed down his spine in a series of chillbumps and robbed the heat from his body.

January in Montana was something to be reckoned with.

The lights of the house glowed faintly through the
windows, urging him inside where there would be warmth and human companionship. Still, he lingered.

The letter packed in his luggage didn't invite a rush into the old homestead, which was sort of Victorian, sort of early ranch house style. The twin gables in the steeply pitched roof indicated a second story, perhaps with bedrooms carved out of the attic.

He wondered where Danielle slept.

The longing he'd blocked for two years hit his chest and radiated outward.
Dani,
his heart repeated with each beat.
Dani.

She wouldn't be glad to see him. The letter proved that. In it, she had said it was time for a divorce. So that they could get on with their lives. So that the uncertainty of their marriage would be resolved. So that they could be entirely free of each other to do whatever they wanted.

What he wanted…her warmth. Her generous love. Her catchy way of laughing.
Dani. Ah, God, Dani.

The wind rushed down the Crazy Mountains, blew snow in a swirl around his head and blinded him for a moment, bringing the unexpected sting of tears to his eyes. When the gust passed and the air cleared again, he blinked away the flakes that clung to his lashes and stared into the eyes of a young girl. Joy flashed through him.

Sara. His daughter. She'd been three when he'd left two years ago.

Her eyes rounded in obvious fright and her mouth dropped open as if in a silent scream. She spun from the window. The heavy curtains dropped into place behind her, shutting out most of the light.

Stunned, he realized she didn't remember him.
That brought its own remorse, separate from all the other regrets that lingered inside him. If he could go back…

But, once started on a course, life wouldn't let a person go back to Day One and make a better decision. And regret didn't do a damned thing but deepen the pain of loss.

The words of the letter burned in the back of his brain, stamped there for all time, a personal message from Dani to him written on the crumbling wall of their marriage.

I think it best if we consider divorce. I made the down payment on the house from my own savings. Naturally I would like to keep it. Your salary has mostly gone into your savings account. I did have to use some for Sara, clothes and dentist and such. I have split her expenses with you, which I thought was fair.

Yeah, it was fair. Taking a deep breath, he walked up the sidewalk and onto the porch that wrapped around the side and front of the house. Damn, but it was colder than a well digger's…

He would have to watch his language around a five-year-old. The last couple of years had been spent with rough company. He had of necessity spoken their lingo. Now he could shut off that part of his life. It was over.

Just like his marriage.

The cost of serving justice had been high, but the safety of his family had come first, or else the price could have been even higher. The picture of a woman and two children, blasted beyond recognition by a
shotgun, lingered in his mind like a horror movie. He'd arrived too late to save them.

Given a tiny twist of fate, that family could have been his. Dani and Sara. It was an image that haunted him in the depths of long, long, lonely nights.

A shiver snaked down his spine. He reached for the handle of the old-fashioned bell on the front door.

 

Danielle heard Sara's running steps cross the living room, the formal dining room that they used for a family room, and on the linoleum of the old-fashioned eat-in kitchen—the quaint, cozy kitchen being one of the reasons she'd bought the drafty old house that needed more repairs than a demolition derby junk heap. She laid the stirring spoon aside and knelt just as Sara rushed to her.

“There, darling, it's all right. Nothing is going to hurt you,” she crooned.

She held her daughter tightly, every fiber of her being ready to fight or soothe or do whatever was necessary to protect her daughter from harm or fear or anything that bothered the five-year-old.

For a second she marveled at the ferocity of feelings that swamped her. She had rarely felt this intensity of emotion, not even in the heady weeks after meeting Kyle, not even during their first year of marriage when she had thought nothing could be more exciting than her dark-haired, blue-eyed FBI agent husband. Fear had put a different spin on the nature of her feelings for her child.

For a moment the loneliness and loss of something—perhaps her expectations that life would be good, that it would be fair—threatened her emotional
control. This past month had come close to being too much—

Pushing the thought firmly behind her, she snuggled Sara close until the child's tremors subsided. Drawing back, she studied the frightened face of the five-year-old.

Blue eyes. Like her father's. Blond hair, thick like her own auburn curls, but wispy fine as children's hair often was and so hard to keep contained in barrettes or ponytail bands. At present, hair straggled over Sara's forehead and tear-reddened cheeks.

Fury crimped the corners of Danielle's soothing smile. If she ever got her hands on the men who had put fear into Sara's soul, replacing the trust and bighearted goodness of childhood with the terror of being kidnapped and held for ransom someplace up in the mountains…

“Here, let's get you fixed up,” she said lightly, putting a brightness she was far from feeling into her voice and smile. She, too, knew fear. Terror was no stranger to her heart. Her nights had been filled with it for weeks.

When her child had been kidnapped and forced to rely on her own quick thinking to escape, Danielle's view of the world had also changed. The two men who had taken her daughter, thinking she was Jenny McCallum, heiress to the Kincaid fortune, were still on the loose.

The police hadn't been able to find them after the men grabbed her daughter from the school parking lot. They hadn't been able to find them after Sara escaped from their lair, even though the authorities
knew the general area where the men had held Sara because of the holly berries found in her hair.

December fourth to December eighteenth. Fourteen days of the most awful fear she'd ever known.

Then Dr. Winters had found her child running coatless down the county road, her pixie face streaked with tears.

Anger seared down Danielle's spine like a hot poker. She hated those men for what they had done to her child. At times during the past month, she had hated the police for not preventing the abduction and for not finding her baby.

Sometimes she hated the FBI who hadn't answered her call for help after she had gotten Sara back and realized her child was still in mortal danger. Sara was the only one who could identify the men.

And Sara's father? Did she also hate the supercool FBI undercover agent who had deserted them, who hadn't answered her frantic calls for help?

She pressed her face into Sara's sweet baby flesh and fought a need to cry as loudly and painfully as her daughter. With an effort she pulled herself together. There was no point in thinking about it. That was the painful past. She had the terrifying present to contend with now that she and Sara were on their own. They had been staying with Sterling and Jessica McCallum since Sara had been found. Sterling was a special investigator with the Sheriff's office and he had offered Danielle and Sara the protection of his home. Though Sara had enjoyed staying with the McCallums, who were the parents of her best friend, Jenny, Danielle knew her daughter needed to return
to her normal home life sometime and so they'd come home after the New Year.

Taking a deep breath, she fixed the smile more firmly on her face. “Where's your pony band? Ah, here it is, dangling by a hair.”

No answering smile appeared on Sara's trembling lips.

Danielle finger-combed the wisps of hair into place and replaced the band around the left ponytail, then did the same for the right side. “There.”

Sara sniffed. She looked worried.

Danielle had consulted the pediatrician about the trauma and how to handle it, especially the fact that Sara hadn't spoken a word since she had been found. Studying her daughter, Danielle decided this wasn't a case of Sara's realizing she'd wandered into a room alone and rushing back to her mother or teacher.

Dear God, what more did she and young Sara have to face? How long could terror last?

“What is it? Can you tell me? What frightened you?” She spoke confidently. As if she could handle everything that life dishes out. Sometimes she wondered how close the breaking point was.

Sara stared at her mutely.

Danielle fought the anger and despair. “Show me, then. Did you see something? Or someone?”

Her heart lurched. She felt the reassuring weight of the semiautomatic pistol tucked into the back waistband of her jeans and covered by a flannel shirt worn over her T-shirt. She didn't know if she could aim it at a person and deliberately shoot him.

Do not give warning. Point and fire. Keep shooting until they stop coming.

The police training program played through her mind. If someone broke in the house, she was to go into the self-defense mode.

Assume they mean you harm. Because they do.

“Show me, love,” she encouraged with a show of bravado. She would do whatever necessary to protect her child.

Taking Sara's hand, she gently urged her into the family room, then through the glass-paned doors into the big, drafty living room they never used in winter. Her eyes darted left and right as she tried to see everywhere at once. She didn't want to be surprised and not have time to use her gun.

Don't give warning.

The living room was empty of strangers as well as furniture. She couldn't afford to fill every room in the old house. “I don't see anything,” she announced, the tension easing out of her neck and shoulders somewhat. “Perhaps you saw your shadow on the wall.”

Sara shook her head vehemently. Curls escaped the hair bands and sprung out around her temples.

Danielle frowned as she checked her daughter's set face, her fear-filled eyes. “You have to tell me—”

The harsh
ring-ring-ring
of the old manual doorbell tore a gasp from her and froze the words in her throat.

She and Sara stood as if suspended in the shadowy world of late afternoon, caught on the cusp of winter's darkness and unable to return to the bright warm world of the kitchen where dinner bubbled in the pot.

The noise grated across her nerves as the bell rang again. Whoever it was, was impatient.

Still she hesitated. Would the kidnappers come to
the front door and ring the bell? Maybe pretending to be from the electric company or something? The lights had been flickering ominously all afternoon and a blizzard was churning up outside.

Sara tugged at her hand.

Danielle put on a brave smile and went to the door. She edged the window blind away from the etched glass panes of the oak door and peered outside, her heart going like a frenzied trip-hammer.

An unfamiliar shape stood in the dark shadows of the porch. Definitely masculine. Tall. Lean. His black Stetson wore a rim of snow on top and around the brim. His dark-blue parka was zipped up to his chin. She couldn't make out the details of his face.

Fear ate at her. Letting go of Sara, she put her right hand behind her and clasped the handle of the .38.

Point and fire.

“Yes?” she said into the crack between the blind and the etched panes. “Who is it?”

A voice from the past spoke to her. “Kyle.”

It was shocking, like meeting someone you knew to be dead and buried right on the street, alive and walking. “Kyle?” she repeated as if she'd never heard of him.

“Your husband,” came the dry reminder. “Open the door. It's damned…it's cold out here.”

Sara peered up at her anxiously. For a second, Danielle could only stare at her daughter, her muscles locked in shock, anger, regret, too many emotions to name.

“Kyle,” she said again. “It's your father,” she said to the child. “Daddy. Do you remember?”

Sara, big-eyed with fear, shook her head.

Danielle pulled herself together. “Wait,” she called out. “I'll unlock the door.”

Her hand trembled as she flicked open the chain, the dead bolt and finally the old-fashioned key in the door lock. She turned the knob. A blast of cold air hit her in the face as the storm door opened and the man who claimed to be her husband stepped into the tiled foyer.

“It's colder here than in Denver,” he said and took off his hat, then banged it against the door frame to knock the snow off onto the porch.

Danielle stepped back instinctively and felt Sara's warm presence as the girl hid behind her, one small fist holding on to Danielle's flannel shirttail.

Kyle removed his coat, checked the snow that clung to the shoulders and shook it off on the porch before closing both doors against the temperamental wind.

“Where can I hang this so it won't drip on the floor?” he asked while she locked up.

“In the mudroom.” At his questioning glance, she added, “The kitchen. It's off the kitchen.”

Trying to grab the tatters of her composure, she led the way back into the light. The homey aroma of beef stew calmed her somewhat when they entered the family room. She closed the French doors behind them to shut out the cold of the unheated areas.